Remix Halloween 2008

I hadn't put much thought into what I wanted to be for Halloween this year.

It seemed like a waste of time.

Last year, I was Michelle Obama. Jeff and I attended a neighbor's party, where John McCain, Sarah Palin and an inflatable moose all made appearances. We danced, drank and socialized, without having to discuss the economy or war or cancer. It was a fun night.

Then several days later, something truly remarkable happened.

Michelle Obama became our country's First Lady.

I like Mrs. Obama. She is smart, thoughtful, sophisticated, and her arms are ALMOST as fit as mine, which made her an easy choice for 2008.

So what have I chosen to be for Halloween 2009?

D B C

Deneitra Before Cancer (i.e., smart, thoughtful, and sophisticated, with strong arms)

What I will miss

I am trying to imagine whether I'll mourn losing my breasts. I've been so focused on the cancer, I hadn't given it much thought.

So I've decided before losing my second one, I should at least think about it.

My first memory of breasts, weren't of my own.
I was in fifth grade. Our class was released for recess, and my classmates and I went herding down the hill toward the playground. Back then, all kids loved recess. There was this girl in our class who, let's just say was "over developed" for a fifth-grader. As she raced toward the swings, something went terribly wrong. The zipper on her dress split apart; her bra came unsnapped; and one of her breasts came bouncing out. She was flushed with embarrassment.

I felt bad for her. But I laughed anyway because I was ten.

I won't miss her breasts.

My next memory was in grad school.
It was summer and our class converged on Galveston to study shore erosion. I shared a room with two other classmates and was the one who answered the door. Professor B. and I had almost concluded our conversation when, just before shutting the door, one of my girls spilled out. I gasped! He turned beet red, backed away, and never mentioned it again.

I won't miss that.

But what I will miss is feeding my children. For nearly three years (total, not each), I fed Christopher, Cameron and Noah. Cameron was an especially good eater: the only baby I've known to gain weight, instead of losing it, before leaving the hospital. Breastfeeding was more than a way of bonding with my babies. For me, it was the way my breast fulfilled their intended purpose.

Now that both breasts will soon be gone, I suppose that's okay too. They have completed their mission.
I know they will never look the same again.
And I'm sure that one day, I'll try to remember what they used-to look like.

But I also know that one day I won't wince or see anything particularly unsightly about my breasts. I will still feel like a woman.
And one day, I will count my blessings.

There's no way I would miss that.

Apps

There are over 85,000 I-Phone Apps.
Seriously, there should be an app for cancer.

Hey! Eyes down here!

Okay, remember when you were at a college party, you met a guy,
started talking and noticed his eyes drifting down your neck and
stopping at your breasts? If you were like me it only happened a
couple of times. But when it did, you probably said something
like, "Hey! Eyes up here," preferring that he talk to your face, instead
of talking to your breasts.

So now, a year or two later, I have the opposite problem.
My hem/onc doctors are obsessed with my blood, not my boobs. What
does that tell you? (This is the military, so don't ask.)

What does it take to find a doctor whose mission in life is to focus on women's
breasts? Isn't that what men do most of their lives anyway?
Remember: eyes up here.

I don't need Dr. Gregory House (aka Hugh Laurie) on my team.
He's always looking for zebras instead of horses.

No, what I need is a doctor whose "eyes are down here",
just where they should be.

Haiku

prayers rising up

humbled by your thoughfulness

knowing I am loved

The Offense of Pink

A few weeks ago, you might have noticed that the NFL was all decked out in pink, supporting Breast Cancer Awareness. The campaign was called A Crucial Catch. One of its goals was to highlight the importance of annual screening for women over 40.

If you watched football that day, then you would have seen stadiums awash in pale pink; goal posts wrapped in cherry blossom pink; and large, burley players, accustomed to wearing black and purple - sporting the softer, gentler color. Even the refs got in on the action.

So it was no big surprise when a boy, got dressed the next day and pulled on a pair of pink socks. I imagine that he was proud to imitate his football heros, but even more proud of his mother.

A day earlier, he'd watched a football game and wanted to know why everything was pink.

For the first time, since her initial diagnosis 15 years earlier, she told him about breast cancer...her breast cancer.

"Remember all the times I was sick?" she asked, without saying too much.
"Yes," he paused, "but Mother, you've been sick a lot."

So I visibly cringed when I heard that the kid's father looked at the socks he was wearing and told him to turn them inside out because "real men don't wear pink." Would he have said the same to the players who wore pink helmets, gloves and cleats in honor of their mothers and grandmothers, wives and sisters?

Of course not, but
it's good to know that his son is well on his way to becoming a "real" man
and disheartening to know that his father isn't.

TOP TEN REASONS TO HAVE THE BILATERAL MASTECTOMY:


10. I'll have a pair of matching breasts.

9. I'll finally have a tatoo, and no one will have one exactly like mine.

8. This time around, I know to grab the MEDIUM government-issued hospital wear.

7. I already know what to eat and what to avoid eating during my hospital stay.

6. Size DOES matter.

5. You will know that if I return from Mardi Gras, I came by my beads honestly.
(No way I showed 'em!)

4. Plastics have a shelf-life of what? Like 80 years?

3. I will finally have a little something in common with Dolly Parton...very little.

2. My breasts will never sag...but yours might.

And the number one reason to have a bilateral mastectomy is...

1. I can't wait to exact my revenge on cancer and look good while doing it.

Why Do People Like Rollercoasters Anyway?

It's like riding a rollercoaster, but you didn't want the ticket.
I don't like rollercoasters. All that motion makes me sick to my stomach.
Some people are adrenalin junkies who like the thrill of the ride.
Not me. I like rides like the swings that fly through the air.
You know where they are going.
You know what happens next.

But this isn't the swings; this is cancer.
What I thought would happen next is that I would start chemo.
What I thought would happen next is that I would have my hair cut very short
and buy a wig...just in case.
What I thought would happen next is that I would have my breast rebuilt.
You know, "We can rebuild you. We can make you better."

Yesterday I found out what would happen next.
I will have to endure a second surgery to extract more lymph nodes.
The ones previously extracted were cancerous.

Today I found out I will also need radiation.
Today I found out I have the Breast Cancer Gene.
Today and over the next few days, I will consider whether to have my right breast removed as well.

Today the rollercoaster ride begins.
I wish I were flying on the swings.

Better than a cell phone

Yesterday I was sitting on the sofa, when my oldest son, Christopher got home from school. He had grown unaccustomed to seeing me in the family room or the kitchen...the place I used-to be before the cancer. Lately when he returned home from school, I was upstairs and in bed. The simpliest demands of the day seemed to drain me since having surgery. But on this day, yesterday, I was eager to see him. When he turned the corner from the foyer into the kitchen, what I saw shocked even me.

It registered quickly; Christopher realized that I virtually sat before him, instead of being tucked away upstairs. As he looked into my eyes, his countenance rose like the sun appearing over the horizon. The corners of his mouth turned up,"Mom! You're up!"

He could hardly contain his excitement as he ran over to hug me, carefully measuring his grip so he wouldn't hurt my wounds.

I know it wasn't Christmas, but you would have sworn I'd handed him his first cell phone.

Zappos to the Rescue

I tried so hard to write yesterday, but I wound up sick most of the day. Hey, it happens! I have cancer, remember.

But if I had been able to write, here's what I would've written:

I was IMing a good friend on FB last night (Tuesday), discussing my diagnosis. She wanted to know if I was happy with doctors. "All but one," I confided.

"Why don't you like him?" she quizzed.

"He is dismissive and told me that my breast cancer is not an emergency. A gun shot wound is an emergency."

"Does he know who he's dealing with? Does he know you're from Texas?" she asked.

"Not yet, but he will when I get rid of him!" I snapped.

Truth was, I hadn't quite figured out how to do that. Jeff and I had discussed it, but weren't sure how to find the right doctor.

Then I thought - Zappos.
Ladies, we all know about Zappos!
You review a slew of shoes online, in your size, desired color and style. Then you typically order several pairs that might work. Once the shoes arrive, you pick the ones you want, and return the ones you don't. Although every shoe you ordered might meet the criteria, not all shoes will be a good fit.

It's the same with doctors. My "assigned" doctor might have been qualified, but he wasn't a good fit.
Sooooo...
I did what any self-respected lady Texan would do: I pulled out my concealed weapon and fired a warning shot.

I'm kidding of course, I simply found another doctor, who was a better fit.

What time would U like your stripper?

Hey, I'm just quoting the text message I received from my girlfriend, Karen.
She's a nurse, who offered to stop by to "strip" my drains.

I have two of them from my surgery. The drains are attached to a bulb that collects the fluid from the vacated area of the breast. Three times daily, the drains need to be stripped (squeezed out for blood clots) and the fluid inside the bulbs is measured, before being discarded. Once the fluid equals less than 30 cc/day, I can have the drains removed.

So for those of you who read the title and thought, "Will Deneitra make it rain?"
My answer is no; I only make it drain.

Missed the Race

I sensed gratitude this morning, as I awoke to the fleeting sound of rain and a vision of runners/walkers, in a wave of pink, slick from the mist. Then I remembered my friends -running in my honor...the way I had done so many times for my younger sister Stephanie, my Aunt Dorothy, and my 100 year-old grandmother, Katie.


Before learning of my diagnosis, we'd registered to "sleep in for the cure." I didn't really have a reason at the time. I'd actively participated in the Race since the late 90's. Now I understand that it would have been a major undertaking with the drains, bandages and pain ball that cling to my torso.

But now I also understand just how people in my life have truly appreciated my efforts to "race" for them and for others diagnosed with breast cancer.

Today I feel like a winner!

And oh yeah, UT's win over OU yesterday didn't hurt either.
HOOK 'EM!!!

Must be the drugs...

...because at 5 a.m. this morning, I awoke in pain. My night nurse (you know - Jeff), handed me a pill. It worked, but not before I had a dream:

I was being honored at a party that I was unable to attend. With a bird's eye view, I watched as a chocolate cake was wheeled in on a cart and placed in the center of the room. I couldn't determine whether the cake had lit candles because the party guests were so tightly packed around, blocking my view. As the crowd parted, I was finally able to see. The cake was a dome of creamy, milk chocolate fondant. A circle of fudge was piped near the cake's center, and a cherry was positioned in the very middle. (Did I mention the cake was chocolate?)

The party host proudly announced that it was the perfect homage to my left breast,
before taking a cake cutter to it.

I don't know why,
but I thought it was funny.

Or maybe it's just my way of saying thanks for the many ways you have shown your love and support. And of course, guaranteeing that you will never look at chocolate cake in quiet the same way ever again.

Walter Reed Hospital really should have a bar

Today is the first day I really believe I'm sick today. Nausea and a Texas-size
headache (aka migraine) dogged me most of the day. After adjusting my meds,
Jeff finally helped the docs figure out what works for me. Now I am looking forward
to enjoying the latte that Karen brought me a few hours ago. Hey, it's cold, but
coffee is coffee, right?

And since I didn't pass a cocktail bar on the way in, I might as well enjoy my
second drug of choice.

On the road to recovery

Can you believe that I'm in a room with four beds? Phone
doesn't work, neither does the computer keyboard, but I've got enough
beds for a small sleepover.
I guess at some point, someone at Walter Reed thought it
would be a good idea to assign four patients to one room. (seriously?)
Fortunately there are only two of us in this
room, and Jeff is checking on the private room across the hall.
You know me: forever the diva, with or without cancer.

A woman of power

This is Jeff, I am guest editing so don't expect the same quality of writing that comes from Dee.
I will take a dictation later today so you can hear her own words.
She did great. All prayers were felt. She is recovering and her mom will be here today.
Until later, the med student is here and the parade of people coming through is about to start.

M-DAY

I was told to be here at 5:00. When we arrived in the waiting room
there was barely room to sit together. The greeter asked my name.
"Hutchinson" I responded. It's a military thing. You don't give your
first name. Maybe there's too much familiarity in knowing. The greeter
was confused why I was there so early. Half an hour later, I'm still
wondering. The only time my butt has left this chair since sitting down
was to stand in line with all the other prisoners to get my government-issued
gown, robe, and booties. The woman issuing the hospital ensembles looks you
up and down before announcing "LARGE" loud enough for the entire waiting room
to hear. Excuse me...I wear medium, I thought.
Can you really blame a girl for being cranky for having to get out of bed at up 4:15, skip coffee AND be handed oversized pjs?

The Day Before

It took nearly two hours to drive in this morning. A couple of early morning car crashes had tied up traffic. A man lost his life...

at least I was sitting in rush hour traffic, albeit behind an Accord with two Lil Wayne-Wannabes.

Besides that, I had cramps, needed to use the bathroom, and drove up the wrong driveway entrance to the hospital.

And oh yeah, I am losing my left breast tomorrow.

October 6, 2009

"Well...it is cancer."

She wasn't supposed to say that. She wasn't even my doctor.

A week earlier she'd performed the biopsy, removed three tumors.

Now she was back, talking about mastectomy, lymph nodes and reconstruction.

That was Tuesday, October 6.


Friday was Template Day - Total Evaluation and Management PLAnning of your Treatment Experience. What it really means is that I met my radiation oncologist, medical oncologist, plastic surgeon, geneticist, and psychologist, who asked, "how are you doing?" "Fine," I responded, with the crazy-Deneitra look: pinched up nose, Grinch-like eyebrows squeezing together. Before I knew it, the afternoon was over, and I was scheduled for surgery.


Now I have to tell the people that I care about. This is how I'm going to do it.